


The Void

by Katie0311



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt Stiles, Stiles Has Nightmares, The Void, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie0311/pseuds/Katie0311
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has nightmares.<br/>Reader is the only one who can calm him down.</p>
<p>(Angst/sad/emotional)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Void

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly I do not own Teen Wolf!

He was screaming again.  
As I watched him writhe across my bed, one arm slung over his head while the other clutched the sheets, I frowned.  
I didn't know what went on in his mind. I didn't know how to help him. All I could do was wake him, and sometimes that was the hardest task of all.  
“Stiles, wake up.”  
I heard heavy footfalls on the creaky wooden floor behind me and saw his father slowly open his bedroom door.  
“Another one?,” He asked me.  
I nodded, gently shaking Stiles’s lanky frame once more.  
“Stiles, come on.”  
His chocolate eyes were suddenly wide open and the arm that had been slung over his face was now ramrod stiff because his hand was gripping my forearm tightly.  
It hurt, but I didn't say a word about it.  
“It's okay Stiles, it's just me.”  
My voice was almost a whisper, but I'd learned that in times like this that's what he needed. Calm, collected, confident. If I strayed from that he'd slip right back into the abyss of his mind and it would be hours, sometimes days before I would see Stiles again. Before he would look at me with any recognition at all.  
Using all the tenderness I could muster, I gently pressed an open palm to his flushed cheek and sighed his name again.  
He blinked.  
“It was a nightmare. You're okay.”  
“Are you real?,” He whispered shakily.  
The words broke my heart, literally caused an ache I couldn't soothe, but this was our dilemma.  
Convincing Stiles we were real and that the monsters weren't.  
“Yes.”  
I heard his dad exhale softly and I turned to see a similar taste of turmoil on his face. He had one balled fist pressed against his mouth and his hair was askew from sleep. He watched me with an intensity I hadn't seen before.  
“Tell me your name,” I whispered.  
“Stiles Stilinski.”  
“Good. Tell me my name.”  
This time when he answered me, he did so with more conviction. He sounded sure.  
I cracked a half-smile.  
“Very good. Now, tell me what your favorite color is.”  
“Blue,” rolled off of his tongue instantly and I gently patted his cheek.  
“See? This is real,” I told him softly.  
His sigh of relief was palpable and all I could do was smile and nod because seeing Stiles like this was almost worse than when I'd been like this.  
Stiles was a ball of light.  
I was a sliver of darkness.  
He didn't deserve this and I didn't deserve to share the air we breathed, but he didn't think that. And by the look on John’s face when he watched me, I know he didn't feel that way either. I knew what was coming, a heartfelt thanks that did nothing but render me speechless and uncomfortable, but no matter how many times I said no neither Stilinski man would leave me alone.  
“Thank you,” John whispered in my direction. His hazy light eyes were trained on me with expert precision, as if he knew where my line of thought was headed.  
“No problem.”  
Stiles suddenly released my arm, looking over at me worriedly.  
“I'm sorry. I didn't realize-”  
I shook my head and he stuttered a sigh, closing his eyes tightly.  
“Do you need me to help you fall back to sleep?,” I offered.  
He nodded fervently and I scooted my chair closer.  
“Okay, close your eyes.”  
He closed his eyes and I fought the urge to trace the lines of his face with my fingertips.  
“Tell me a story. Make it a good one too,” I said with a smile.  
I heard a soft chuckle and turned just in time to see John making his way out of the room. He didn't say a word to me, but then he didn't have to. I knew what he wanted me to know.  
“I was young. Maybe three or four, and it was Christmas...,” as his voice flooded the room I sank back into the chair and listened closely. This was how we connected. This was how we maintained sanity. When he had his bouts of near psychosis I would bring him back to reality.  
When I was paralyzed with a fear so deep I could barely take a breath, he would coax me back to life.  
We were two fucked up peas in a very small pod, but our dynamic worked. Not for everyone and certainly not all the time, but it did work.  
And as his eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing became deep and even, I climbed into bed beside him and pressed myself against his side, curling my hand around his and nestling my face into the crook of his neck.  
He was my comfort zone.  
He was my safe haven.  
He didn't know it, but I loved him.

 


End file.
